Part 7
It was but for a moment's pause--the next their daggers gleam, And she falls, the young and lovely, by Mondego's fated stream; Like red rain on the young flowers, pours forth life's crimson tide-- And softly murmuring, Pedro! she looked to Heaven, and died.
THE WAIWODE.
FROM THE RUSSIAN.
Secretly by night returning, Jealous fears within him burning, The Waiwode seeks his young wife's bed, And with trembling hand, uncertain, Backward draws the silken curtain-- Death and vengeance--she has fled!
With a frown like tempest weather, Fierce he knits his brows together, Tears his beard in wrathful mood-- Roars in thunder through the castle, Summoning each trembling vassal, "Ho there! slaves--ye devil's brood!
"Who left the castle gate unguarded, And slew the hound?--some hand unbarr'd it! Quick! prepare ye sack and cord! My arms here, fellows--loaded, ready! Now, slave, your pistols, follow--steady--- Ha, traitress! thou shalt feel this sword!
Close in the murky shadows hiding, Slave and master, onward gliding, Reach the garden. There, indeed, Listening to the soft appealing Of a youth before her kneeling, Stands she in her white _naridd_.
Through the marble fountain's playing, Passion's words they hear him saying-- "How I love thee, yet thou'st sold All thy beauty's glowing treasures, All this soft band's tender pressures, For the Waiwode's cursed gold.
"How I loved, as none can love thee; Waited, wept--if tears could move thee-- Ah! and is it thus we meet? He ne'er strove through tears and troubles, Only clang'd his silver roubles, And thou fallest at his feet.
Yet once more, through night and storm, I ride to gaze upon thy form, Touch again that thrilling hand; Pray that peace may rest upon thee In the home that now has won thee, Then for ever fly this land."
Low she bendeth o'er him weeping, Heeds not stealthy footsteps creeping, Sees not jealous eye-balls glare-- "Now, slave, steady,--Fool, thou tremblest Vengeance if thy heart dissemblest-- Kill her as she standeth there."
"Oh, my Lord and master, hear me-- Patience yet, or much I fear me I shall never aim aright. See, the bitter night wind's blowing Numbs my hand, and brings these flowing Icy tears to dim my sight.
"Silence! thou accurséd Russian. Hold--I'll guide the pistol's motion; See'st thou not her gleaming brow? So, steady--straight before thee--higher-- When I gave the signal, fire-- Darker doom awaits him--Now!"
A shot, a groan, and all is over; Still she standeth by her lover-- 'Tis the Waiwode falleth dead! Was ever known such sad disaster? The bungling slave hath shot his master Straight and steady through the head.
THE COMPARISON.
FROM THE PORTUGUESE.
I.
Loveliest of flowers That in the garden grows, Brightest, sweetest, fairest, Crimson blushing rose. Envy of all others, No charm thy beauty misses, Favourite of Phœbus, Blushing at his kisses.
II.
Yet as he outshineth, Glorying in his might, The pale, uncertain splendour Of Luna's silver light-- So does Amarilla, When compared unto thee, Heedless wanton, careless Of the thousand lips that woo thee.
III.
Thou hast cruel thorns Beneath thy rich leaves lying, But she is soft and gentle As Æolian music sighing; Thou heedest not the murmur Of Zephyr when he sings, But see her dark eyes flashing When I touch my golden strings.
IV.
In the month of flowers, When flaunting in thy pride, Crimson-robéd Queen, I shall place thee side by side; Then, Cupid, come and tell me, On thy judgment I'll repose, Which is fairest, brightest, Amarilla or the Rose? Stay! here is Venus coming, The goddess will decide-- Ah! tis not the Paphian Queen, But Amarilla, my young Bride!
BUDRIS AND HIS SONS.
FROM THE RUSSIAN.
I.
Spring to your saddles, and spur your fleet horses; Time for ye, children, to seek your life courses. (Thus spake old Budris, the Lithuan brave.) Never your father's sword rusted in leisure, Never his hand failed to grasp the rich treasure; But now my feeble frame sinks to the grave.
II.
Three paths from Wilna to plunder will lead ye; Ride forth, my sons--each a path I aread ye-- Thus will your booty be varied and rare. Olgard, go thou and despoil the proud Prussian; Woiwod, Kiestut, be thy prey the Russian-- Vitald the lances of Poland may dare.
III.
From Novgorod Veliki[9] come back to me never Without the rich dust of the Tartar's gold river; Bring the sables of Yakutsk, so costly and fine, And the silver of Argun they dig from the mine, The gems of Siberia and far Koliván-- So saints speed the ride of the bold Lithuán!
IV.
In the cursed Prussian land there is wealth for the bold: Ha, boy! never shrink from their ducats of gold; Take their costly brocades, where the golden thread flashes, The amber that lies where the Baltic wave dashes, Be the prize but as rich as your forefathers won, And the gods of old Litwa[10] will guard thee, my son.
V.
No gold, my young Vitald, will fall to thy share, Where the plains of the Polac lie level and bare; But their lances are bright, and their sabres are keen, And their maidens the loveliest ever were seen: So speed forth, my son, and good luck to the ride That brings a fair Polenese home for thy bride.
VI.
Not the azure of ocean, or stars of the sky, Can rival the colour or light of her eye; Like the lily in hue, when its first leaves unfold, Is the bosom on which fall her tresses of gold; Fine and slender her form as the pines of the grove, And her cheek and her lips glow with beauty and love.
VII.
By three paths from Wilna, the young men are roaming, Day after day Budris looks for their coming-- But day after day he watcheth in vain. No steed from the high-road, no lance from the forest, He watcheth and waiteth in anguish the sorest-- "Alas! for my brave sons, I fear they are slain!"
VIII.
The snow in the valley falls heavy and fast-- Through the forest a horseman comes dashing at last, With his mantle wrapped closely to guard from the cold: "Ha, Olgard! hast brought me the ducats of gold? Let's see--is it amber thou'st won for thy ride?" "Oh, father--no, father--a young Polish bride!"
IX.
The snow on the valley falls heavier still, A horseman is seen rushing down from the hill; Wrapped close in his mantle some rich treasure lies-- "How now, my brave son--hast thou brought me a prize? Is it silver of Argun thou'st won for thy ride? Come show me!" "No, father--a young Polish bride!"
X.
Faster and thicker the snow-showers fall-- A horseman rides fiercely through snow-flakes and all; Budris sees how his mantle is clasped to his breast-- "Ho, slaves! 'tis enough, bid our friends to the feast! I'll ask no more questions, whatever betides, We'll drain a full cup to the three Polish brides!"
THE LADY BEATRIZ.
ROMANCE.
FROM THE SPANISH.--THIRTEENTH CENTURY.
"Bodas hacian en Francia."
There were stately nuptials in France, In the royal town of Paris: Who is it leads the dance? The lovely Lady Beatriz.
Who is it gazes on her, With looks so earnest and bright? 'Tis her noblest Page of Honour, Don Martin, Count and Knight.
The bride and her maidens advance-- Young Count, why lookest thou so? Are thy dark eyes fixed on the dance, Or on me? Oh! I fain would know.
I gaze not upon the dance, Sweet Beatriz, lady mine; For many a galliard I've seen in France, But never such beauty as thine.
Then if thou lovest me so, young Count, Oh! take me away with thee; For nor gay nor young, though a prince's son, Is the bridegroom they'd wed with me.
There was mourning in France, I ween, In the royal town of Paris; For no more was seen either Count Martín Or the lovely Lady Beatriz.
A SERVIAN SONG.
I.
Wherefore neighest thou so sadly? Stampest with the hoof so madly? Speak, my steed--why at the tent, With thy stately neck down bent?
II.
Have not my own hands caress'd thee? Proudly in gay trappings dress'd thee? Yet thou com'st not as of old, Champing at thy curb of gold.
III.
Hast thou not, in bright hues glowing, Silken shabrack downward flowing, Silver hoof and broidered rein. Gemm'd with trophies from the slain?
IV.
And the horse, he answered sadly-- Stamp I with the hoof so madly? Tramp of steed I hear afar, Trumpet clang and din of war.
V.
But soon a stranger will bestride me, Other hand than thine will guide me, Never more by thee caress'd, Or proudly in gay trappings dress'd.
VI.
See, the foe, with fury glowing, Rends my glittering shabrack flowing, Curb of gold and broidered rein Fiercely does he cleave in twain.
VII.
And my stately neck is drooping, 'Neath a fearful burthen stooping-- There a dead man lies supine, Cold as ice--the Form is thine!
INSTABILITY.
FROM THE SPANISH.--SIXTEENTH CENTURY
"Como estoy alegre Tristezas temo."
When the day is brightest, Darkness draweth near; When the heart is lightest, Coming grief I fear.
Eyes of heavenly splendour, Radiance o'er me fling; But when their light's most tender I fear its vanishing.
Lips, where passion keepeth Holiest incense, bend to mine; But when woman speaketh, Who would trust so false a shrine?
Even in twined caresses Where love has woven his spells, Of the mutual love that blesses, I hear a voice which tells.
As light with darkness weddeth, So must pleasure with annoy, And sorrow ever treadeth On the doomed path of joy.
A WARNING.
FROM THE DANISH.
I.
Fair Guniver roam'd in the sunset light, Through wood and wold, In sweet dreams of love, but her heart was bright As proven gold. Yet ever a voice to the maiden spoke, Beware--beware of the false men-folk!
II.
Fair Guniver fished by a lonely stream, With silken line, And smiled to see in the silvery gleam Her image shine. Yet ever a voice still whispered there, My child, of the false-men folk beware!
III.
Lo! a Merman rose from the sedgy reeds, With glittering eyes, And a mantle of pale-green ocean weeds Draped kingly-wise; And wreath'd with the mist of his flowing hair, Was a crown of the river-lotus fair.
IV.
Sweet Guniver, said he, in tones that fell So low and clear, Like music that breathes from the caverned shell In the listener's ear: I've gazed on thy beauty down deep in the sea, And my heart pines away for the love of thee.
V.
Yet I ask thee to grant but one demand, Oh! let me rest My burning lips on thy snow-white hand, One instant blest: And dream not of harm, for a Merman's truth Is pure as a maiden's in stainless youth.
VI.
Fair Guniver, heed not the tongues that tell Of man's vain wile, For our artless souls, thou knowest full well, Disdain all guile. Is it much to ask for thy hand to rest One moment, in love, on thy throbbing breast?
VII.
'Tis a gentle prayer, she answered, to sue For one alone; So, beautiful Merman, here take the two Within thine own; And if, as thou sayest, my hand can bless, Place both to thy lips in one love caress.
VIII.
He took her white hands, and he drew her down, With laughter hoarse; But the fishermen weep, for they look upon Fair Guniver's corse. And still, by her lone grave, the same voice spoke, Beware--oh! beware of the false men-folk!
CASSANDRA.
FROM SCHILLER.
I.
Joy in Ilion's hall resoundeth, Ere the mighty city fell; Festive hymns of triumph sounded With the gold harp's richest swell. Each stern warrior rests at last From that strife of direst slaughter; For the brave Pelides weds Royal Priam's loveliest daughter.
II.
Troop on troop, with laurel garlands, Slowly swept the bridal train Onward to the sacred temple Where arose the Thymbrian's fane. By them ran, with long hair streaming, Ivy-crownéd Mænades; One alone, of sorrow dreaming, Wandered in her wretchedness.
III.
Joyless, while they chant their praises-- None to soothe her, none to love-- Did Cassandra tread the mazes Of Apollo's laurel grove; To the wild wood's deepest shadow Fled the mystic maiden now, And she dashed the priestess-fillet Wildly from her throbbing brow.
IV.
"Everywhere are sounds of gladness, From each happy heart awoke; I alone must rove in sadness, I alone must grief invoke. Joy illumes my father's features, Garlanded my sisters stand-- Yet I hear the rushing pinions Of Destruction o'er our land.
V.
"Wildly high a torch is flashing, But 'tis not from Hymen's hand; Upward see the red stream dashing, But 'tis not an altar brand. Costly viands, festal dances, Wait the bridegroom and the bride-- Yet the Avenger's step advances, Who will crush them in their pride.
VI.
"And they mock my prophet wailing, And they scorn my words of woe; Fatal gift and unavailing-- Still I've wandered to and fro, Shunn'd by all the happy round me, Scorned by all where'er I trod; Heavily thou hast foredoomed me, Oh! thou mighty Pythian God!
VII.
"Why on me was laid the mission: Lift the future's mystic shroud? Why to me the seer's vision 'Mid a spirit-darkened crowd? When the mortal arm is weak, Wherefore give the prophet's power? Can it turn the stream, or break Clouds of woe that darkly lower?
VIII.
"Wherefore lift the pall o'ershading Dark and dread Futurity? Ignorance is joy unfading-- Knowledge, death and misery. Oh! recall thy mournful mission-- Take the future from my sight: Fatal is the prophet's vision To the form that shrines its light.
IX.
"Give me back the happy blindness, Ere my childhood felt thy spell; Never sang I in joy's wildness Since I heard thy oracle. Clear the future lies before me, But the present veiled away; Oh! to life and joy restore me-- Take thy cruel gift away!
X.
"Never round my perfumed tresses May the bridal wreath entwine; 'Mid thy temple's drear recesses Doomed in loneliness to pine. Never o'er my youth of weeping Did one happy moment rise-- Never aught but sorrow reaping From thy fatal mysteries.
XI.
"See my gay companions round me, Blessed with all that love can give; I alone, my youth consuming, Live to weep, and weep to live. Vain to me the sun, the skies, The flowers on the green earth bending; Who the joys of life would prize That could know their bitter ending?
XII.
"Thou, Polyxena, art happy In thy love's first deep excess, Hellas gives her bravest hero To thy young heart's fond caress. Proudly is her bosom heaving, Conscious of her bridegroom's love, Whilst her dreams of pleasure weaving, Envies not the Gods above.
XIII.
"And I, too, have trembled gazing Upon one my heart adored-- In his deep eyes' soft appraising Reading love's unspoken word. Bridal vows I'd fain have uttered, Oh, to him how willingly! But there stepped a Stygian spectre Nightly between him and me.
XIV.
"Pale and hideous phantoms haunt me, From the realms of Proserpine; Ghastly shades of gloom confront me, Everywhere my steps incline; Even in festive scenes of pleasure, Stifling bright youth's careless glee-- Oh! that I could know the treasure Of a young heart's gaiety!
XV.
"Ha! the murderer's steel is beaming! The murderer's eye glares wildly bright! Whither shall I fly the gleaming Of the Future's lurid light? All in vain I turn my glances-- Still the vision's ghastly hand Points my doom as it advances: Death within the stranger's land."
XVI.
Does the prophet-maiden falter? Hark! those wild disordered cries! Slain before the sacred altar, Dead the son of Thetis lies. Eris shakes her wreathed serpents-- All the Gods their temples shun-- And a thunder-cloud is resting Heavily on Ilion!
UNDINÉ.
FROM THE DANISH.
I.
Undiné by the lonely shore, In lonely grief, is pacing; The vows her perjured lover swore No more with hope retracing. Yet none in beauty could compare With ocean's bright-haired daughter. Her cheek is like the lotus fair That lieth on the water;
II.
Her eye is like the azure sky, The azure deep reflecteth; Her smile, the glittering lights on high, The glittering wave collecteth. Her robe of green with many a gem And pearl of ocean shineth, And round her brow a diadem Of rosy coral twineth.
III.
Like diamonds scattered here and there, The crystal drops are glistening Amid her flowing golden hair, As thus she paceth listening-- Listening through the silver light, The light that lover loveth; Listening through the dark midnight, But still no lover cometh.
IV.
An earthly love her heart enthralls, She loves with earth's emotion; For him she left her crystal halls Beneath the crystal ocean. Abjured them since he placed that day The gold ring on her finger, Though still the sparkling diamond spray Around her robe would linger.
V.
And she hath gained a human soul, The soul of trusting woman; But love hath only taught her dole, Through tears she knows the human. So from her sisters far apart, Her lonely path she taketh, With human sorrow in the heart That human love forsaketh.
VI.
She weaves a crown of dripping reeds, On which the moon shines ghastly-- "A wedding crown my lover needs, My pale hands weave it fastly." She treads a strange and solemn dance, The waves around her groaning, And mingles, with prophetic sense, Her singing with their moaning.
VII.
"My bridegroom, nought can save thee now, Since plighted troth is broken-- The fatal crown awaits thy brow, The fatal spell is spoken. Thou'rt standing by another bride, Before the holy altar-- A shadowy form at thy side Will make thy strong heart falter.
VIII.
"To her, within the holy church, Thy perjured vows art giving; But never shalt thou cross the porch Again amidst the living. I wait thee 'neath the chill cold waves, While marriage-bells are tolling; Our bridal chant, 'neath ocean's caves, Be ocean's billows rolling."
IX.
The bridegroom, in his pride of youth, Beside the fair bride standeth-- "Now take her hand to plight thy troth," The solemn Priest commandeth. But lo! a shadowy form is seen Betwixt the bridal greeting, A shadowy hand is placed between, To hinder theirs from meeting.
X.
The priest is mute, the bridegroom pale-- He knows the sea-nymph's warning; The fair bride trembles 'neath her veil, The bridal's turned to mourning. No more within the holy church, Love's holy vows are giving; They bear the bridegroom from the porch-- The dead amidst the living!
+NOTE TO UNDINÉ.+
These Undinés, or Ocean Nymphs, according to the Northern Mythology, are gentle, beautiful, harmless creations in the form of woman, but without a soul. They can attain this only by union with a mortal, and as they have a passionate desire to ascend into the higher life of humanity, they seek such earthly unions, not guilefully, like the Sirens, but lovingly, aspiringly, as the human might aspire to the angel. It is a beautiful mythus, and veils a deep and profound meaning. De La Motte Fouqué has made it familiar to all readers by his exquisite romance of "Undiné," and Bulwer has revealed some of the hidden truths shadowed forth by the fable, in his two novels of "Ernest Maltravers" and "Alice"--namely, the power of love to create an intellect, in fact, a _soul_ in woman. For, to the deep-thinking, close-observing psychologist, there is no truth more evident than that, under the influence of love, a woman's intellect, genius, energy, all the powers of her mind seem capable of infinite expansion. And just in proportion as love has need of them, do the particular qualities start into life and unimagined vigour; be it fortitude, heroism, mental energy, even physical courage, love seems to have the power to create them all. Nothing is impossible to a woman that loves, as nothing is impossible to a man who _wills_. Another truth is symbolised in this ocean hieroglyphic--namely, that it is the instinct of a woman's nature to aspire, while the instinct of a man's nature is to deteriorate--to gravitate towards the animal, to a lower sphere of existence. Woman always loves heavenward; she has the instinct of ascension like flame and ether. Man always loves earthward; he gravitates to earth, not to spirit: so that we may formulize thus:--Love gives soul to a woman, but takes it from a man. This is assuming what, indeed, is true, that man always bestows his love, by preference, on fair Undinés without souls. When united to such he necessarily divides his soul with her, for all things in nature tend to an equalization, and as he gives half so he loses half. What the result would be if a man of genius wedded a priestess of the eternal fire we have no means of ascertaining; for history contains no solitary instance of a man of genius becoming united to his equal: that true correlative of his soul, of which Plato speaks, but which no one, so destiny seems to decree, shall ever find on earth.
We may imagine, indeed, the possibility of a beautiful, lofty, soaring spirit, standing ever beside man in the combat of life. A serene influence, almost as invisible, yet as sustaining as the ether of heaven, filling him with all divine impulses, strengthening all his noble aspirations, exciting his spirit upwards by all rich and radiant foreshadowings of glory, as Minerva stood, bright in deity, yet loving as humanity, beside her favourite warrior on the plains of Troy. But this is but a fabulous hypothesis; for, as we have said, man always loves earthward, and when united to the soulless Undiné, quickly vanishes with her into the ocean of inanity. Here is another cryptic meaning in the myth--the union is represented as indissoluble. He leaves the human, and descends to her sphere--to a lower state of existence. A man without the influence of love may rise to any height; love is not the absolute requirement for his elevation, as it is for woman's; but, bound to an inferior nature, he must fall, and does fall invariably, irrecoverably, precisely down to her level. There is no hope for him. He cannot resist the fatal miasma of commonplace. He falls for ever into the dull abyss of mediocrity. We are not proof against any of the daily influences, however trivial, that surround us. Always there is a tendency to assimilation, either by ascension or deterioration, and Tennyson's proposition is as true in the converse, as in the original statement:--
As the wife is so the husband--_he_ will sink down day by day, What is fine within him growing coarse to sympathise with clay.
And now, as every fable must have a moral, what shall we learn from this mythus of the fatal termination of men who "herd with narrow foreheads?" The moral is obvious. Let all genius remain unwed--
All unmated--all unmated, Because so consecrated.
THE PAST.
From the far off time of my youthful prime A light comes evermore; Oh! it seems so bright in its far-off light, The glory I had of yore.
What the swallow sang with its silvery clang, When autumn and spring were near; What the church bells rung and the choristers sung, The chant and the song I hear.
Oh! that parting day when I went away, How my heart to joy awoke! And again I came, but ah! not the same, For the trusting heart was broke.
Since that parting day--that parting day-- Through the fair bright world I've ranged, And the world is there still as bright and fair-- But I--'tis I have changed.